My name is Mag. Not Magdalena, not Maggie. Mag. I am twenty-nine, one metre sixty-five in the shoes I take off under the desk, and blonde in a way São Paulo sun keeps honest: darker at the roots by Thursday, bright again after Saturday. I work on the fourteenth floor of a glass building in Vila Olímpia that pretends it is not just an office. My breasts are ordinary. I like them. They sit where they sit, not a performance, and my nipples have never learned discretion. By four o'clock they are marking the blouse. I stopped wearing a padded bra to a job that keeps me past eight. Let the fabric tell the truth. The rest of me tells it too, if anyone gets that far: I am pink where I am wet, a neat, flushed pink that deepens when I am close, and I have made peace with being looked at there. I have not made peace with wanting the man who stays late on my floor.

His name is Vicente. Thirty-six. A wedding ring he turns when he is thinking, which is not the same as a wedding he talks about. We don't talk about it. We talk about the deck, the numbers, the sentence in the footnote that legal will hate. He has a mouth that goes soft when he is tired. I have been watching the mouth…